He cuts my question off with a deep kiss, surprising me. With a slow roll, I suddenly find myself lying on the mattress, with Sebastian’s arm crooked beneath my neck and his mouth on my neck, his scruff scratching my skin but in the most seductive way—half ticklish, half torturous.
“I won’t let anything happen to you. Just listen to me next time.” His voice is low and gravelly, much like last night. I can feel him growing hard against my thigh.
And I’m overcome with relief that he’s not mad at me anymore. That I haven’t completely screwed everything up with him today, being so mule-headed.
“Because you’re a ninja?” My fingers tug at his soft T-shirt until it bunches in my hands.
I catch the smirk on his face as he lifts himself up enough to pull it over his head, uncovering that body I’ve come to love so much. “No, because I know how to keep people alive.”
“Don’t forget that I’m not paying you.”
His smirk widens into a full smile, watching me as I slide my own shirt up over my head. “Don’t worry, I haven’t.” He’s already zoned in on the front clasp of my bra. He pushes the button and the material springs off.
He’s resting on an elbow now, peering down at my bare upper half, his index finger trailing over my arm. “What do these mean?”
“A lot of things.”
Dark eyes flash to me. “Like what?”
“Like . . .” Do I want to tell him? I’ve been asked that question by many people before, including Amber, and I’ve never given the complete truth to anyone.
He looms over me, waiting.
“Like that one there.” I nod to the one he has his finger on—a classic weight scale with a tiny woman perched on one side, raised high while the empty side hangs low. “It means I’m nobody’s burden. I can take care of myself.”
A flicker of softness catches his eyes. “That’s important to you, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. And this one”—I tap the mask that Ian did for me last year in Ireland—“is my mask, that I like to wear to keep people from seeing how I’m feeling.”
“And this one?” One by one, I describe each and every piece of ink on my arm. It’s been a seven-year process beginning on my eighteenth birthday. Well planned out, each component my own design that I handed to a trusted artist—there are very few of them—to etch into my skin.
Each piece deeply personal to me.
“This one?” Sebastian’s strong, large hands sweep over the beautiful woodland fairy that dances along my rib cage on my right side.
“That’s Iridessa, my fairy godmother. Ned used to tell me that she’d watch over me while I was sleeping. For years, I believed him.” That was one of my first pieces. Ned did it for me.
Sebastian’s long fingers trail along the bramble of ivy and sharp thorns that runs along my pelvis. “And this?”
That anyone who wants past it is going to have to work for it and accept a few wounds. “What do you think it means?” I say instead.
His hand slides past it, down the front of my leggings and into my panties. “That it doesn’t apply to me.”
Completely unabashed by how wet I am right now, I close my eyes and turn toward Sebastian, finding a corner of that thick, strong neck of his to lay my mouth on, tasting just a hint of salt on his skin. I love the taste of Sebastian, I decide, as I fumble over his belt buckle and zipper, quickly unfastening them so I can wrap my fist around him.
I groan in protest when his hand suddenly disappears, but I soon realize it’s only so he can pull my leggings down, over my hips and thighs. I help him, kicking my legs until they work their way down to my boots. They won’t get past those.
“I’m stuck,” I whisper.
“Are you?” He lifts his head to assess the situation, smiling a touch, before his gaze rakes over me and his hand lands between my legs once again.